


The Fake Case Of The Three Dead Russians.

by thinkpink20



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-24
Updated: 2012-02-24
Packaged: 2017-10-31 16:27:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,303
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/346136
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thinkpink20/pseuds/thinkpink20
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lestrade wonders why with Sherlock it always feels like he's walking around with his heart on his sleeve.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Fake Case Of The Three Dead Russians.

**Author's Note:**

> Written after the very first episode, so set early on in the BBC version!

Lestrade is just on his way out of the office when his mobile starts to trill in his pocket. He almost - almost - doesn't reach for it, then decides no matter how tired his eyes are, how heavy his limbs feel, it's more than his job's worth to ignore it.

"Hello?"

"Inspector Lestrade? Um, I'm sorry to bother you but... I think I need your help."

He doesn't know John Watson all that well yet, he's still something of an unknown commodity, but Lestrade knows that if he's called it must be for a reason; he's not a flippant man or the panicking type - Sherlock wouldn't stand that sort of character for more than five minutes. So he goes, despite the lingering headache, and points his car towards Baker Street.

When he gets there, John already has the door open, catching a little bit of the night air. His hands are in his pockets and he seems a bit sheepish, but he seemed like that during the case a few weeks ago, so maybe it's just his general demeanour, like he's apologising for being there at all. But then bothering with Sherlock Holmes can do that to you, Lestrade supposes.

"What's wrong with him?" He asks, pointing his arm back towards his car, pressing the key.

"Um, I'm not sure actually, he's just... I think he's depressed. You know him better than me so..."

"I doubt it," Lestrade shrugs, hunching further into his suit jacket to avoid the chill. He wonders why he came.

"I just thought - I mean, does he do this?"

Lestrade looks into John Watson's confused face. He's too nice, he thinks; too nice to be spending time with Sherlock - that sort of misanthropy can rub off on you. 

"Sometimes, yeah," Lestrade sighs. "Where is he?"

John leads him in, up the stairs. The sitting room is empty when they get up there, more signs of humanity than normal which tells Lestrade that Sherlock hasn't ventured out in days probably, letting the place get overgrown with things you'd usually see in flats like magazines and take-away cartons rather than bulk nicotine patches and abandoned violins.

"He's in his bedroom," John says, and doesn't question how Lestrade knows which door that is when he walks over, knocking softly.

"Sherlock?" Lestrade calls through the wood. He doesn't expect an answer and doesn't get one, glances back once at John and receives a sort of encouraging smile before going in.

Sherlock's on the bed, flat on his back with his arms on his chest, like he's in a coffin. His eyes are shut and his face has the deathly pale look of someone who hasn't seen the sun in over a week. Lestrade hears himself sigh, still reluctant to even be here, but a quick glance tells him that John has actually followed him in, hovering in the doorway like a spectre.

He squats down near the head of the bed, hands hanging between his knees like he's taking his first glance at a dead body. "Sherlock?" He says again, voice quiet.

"No need to use the hushed tone with me," Sherlock says, "I'm not asleep." He sits up like a clockwork doll, mechanical and precise, opening his eyes and observing the strange scene in his bedroom. "What are you doing here, Lestrade?"

"I, er - " His mind stumbles, knows he can't just express concern, that would be emotional suicide. "I need your help with a case."

"So why didn't you ring?" Sherlock asks, glancing pointedly at his mobile on the end of the blank desk in the corner of the room. "You always ring first, that's procedure."

"He rang me," John pipes up from the doorway, "I told him to come round."

"I wasn't aware you two had exchanged numbers," Sherlock smirks. "How cosy."

The smug implication in his voice confirms to Lestrade that he really shouldn't have come; but now he's stuck here asking for Sherlock's help when he doesn't even really bloody need it. And he's clearly fine, if his viper-like tongue is anything to go by.

"So are you busy?" He asks, standing up so that he's not hunkering submissive on the floor (and besides it's been a long day, his back can't take it). "Or will you look at the case notes?"

Sherlock gives him that beady stare for a moment, Lestrade tries desperately not to look away then fails, glancing down at his shirt cuffs, pulling them out of the end of his sleeves. "Of course. Tomorrow morning?"

"First thing," Lestrade says, going over to where John is still standing in the doorway. "Don't be late, Sherlock."

 

 

 

The last time they met, they'd had sex. It was an embarrassing affair, Lestrade had come but Sherlock hadn't, then he'd wiped his hands uncomfortably on a hankie from his pocket and departed. It had been at Scotland Yard, and Lestrade had been left breathless on the edge of his desk, trousers pushed down around his ankles as he watched Sherlock's retreating back, suit still crisp and perfectly pressed despite the effort just expended.

After being hastily told, "Sometimes it's just not going to happen," and being pushed away, Lestrade had given up. He can still feel the hot flow of embarrassment when he thinks about it. It makes it hard to look Sherlock in the eye.

"Inspector Lestrade," Sherlock says, breezing into the room and pulling off his gloves. He looks mildly better than he did last night, despite the early hour. "What have we got? Rape? Murder? More lost luggage?"

Lestrade throws the case file at him, papers skidding out of the brown file as it lands. "Three dead Russians," he says, looking down at his desk. "Thought you might shed some light."

"Where are the bodies?" Sherlock asks, speed-reading the case notes, flicking through the white sheets, long used to Lestrade's scruffy handwriting.

"Down with Molly in the morgue - feel free to go and take a look."

"And the weapons?"

"Still in forensics, no prints as yet."

"DNA?"

"Profiling are working on it."

Sherlock nods, eyes still scanning the pages. "You're stumped," he says, looking up with far too sharp a stare for this time of the morning. Lestrade pouts his bottom lip, gives a little shrug.

"We're _puzzled."_

"So this is The Times and you want me to fill in your crossword?" Sherlock asks, his mouth betraying the tiniest hint of a smile. Lestrade vehemently hopes he's not blushing.

"Just thought a fresh pair of eyes might help."

Donovan chooses that exact moment to barge into the room, dispelling any tension. "Oh God, what's the Freak doing here?" She asks, walking around Sherlock as though he's barely there and putting a new file on Lestrade's desk. He moves to cover the name on it quickly, hoping Sherlock hasn't seen.

"I asked him in for help with a case."

Donovan frowns at him, face pulled into an angry scowl. She hates him so much that in the past Lestrade's wondered if something went on there. That level of dislike is usually only ever inspired by sex or money.

"I told Molly you'd be down to see the bodies," Lestrade says before Donovan can speak again, tries to look as casual as possible at Sherlock - if he suspects he _wants_ him to go to the morgue, the bugger will never leave.

After a moment, he capitulates. "Fine, I'll go and see what you missed."

"You do that," Lestrade replies, then sighs audibly when the door swings shut. Instantly, Donovan is on him.

"Which case have you brought him in on? That stabbing in Clapham?"

He rubs his eyes, feeling a migraine starting to form around his temples. "No," Lestrade says, "The Russians."

"But that's open and shut," she protests. "Look at that new file, it confirms what we first suspected about the poison, administered through the - "

"Yeah, I know," Lestrade mutters, glancing at the file even though he knows what will be written there already. "We just have to wait for profiling to give us a name."

"So why bring him in?" Donovan asks, spitting 'him' like Lestrade has done a deal with the devil. Which actually, maybe he has.

"I just wanted to be sure on this one," he lies. "International case, the Chief is watching us all like hawks."

"Bollocks," she says, perching herself on the edge of Lestrade's desk and folding her arms. "You're not worried, I saw you yesterday laughing with him, organising the 'aren't we great' speech for the press conference. So what's going on?"

Lestrade thinks maybe he'd be in a better position to answer that question if he actually knew himself. Upon seeing Sherlock fit and well last night he probably should have told John to piss off and find someone else to babysit his errant sociopath, but for some reason he didn't. Lestrade really doesn't want to think about what that reason is. It's the thing giving him the migraine, and Donovan is only making it worse.

"Who's in charge here?" He suddenly asks. "Me, or you?"

He hates pulling rank on her, but sometimes things force him to. And those 'things' are usually Sherlock.

"You, Gov," Donovan submits, but her tone tells him she knows there's something fishy going on. She's the best he has on his team, and he's reminded sometimes just how good she is, how much he'd hate to really be on the other side of her.

"Right, so thank you for the file, you can go."

Lestrade feels harsh dismissing her, wonders why the hell he keeps putting Sherlock and his unique brand of insanity before everyone else. But then there goes that migraine again, and he stops. He's getting too old for this.

 

 

 

He has to take Sherlock to the crime scene even though SOCO are pretty much finished there and getting ready to leave, all the major evidence already found. He's pretending there are pieces still left to fill in on this jigsaw just to give Sherlock something to do, and the officer in charge of Scene Of Crime looks at him strangely as Sherlock flaps along in his wake, coat billowing like some macabre bat.

"You've got ten minutes," Lestrade says, and lifts the barrier for Sherlock to pass through. He gets a look that pierces right through him in return, and not for the first time he really hopes this is working to keep Sherlock sane, because in the process it's ushering in insanity for him.

"Thought you were all finished up here, Sir?" Cooper asks, clearly feeling like he's under inspection, the boss coming down without warning for inspection. Why is it that every time he tries to put Sherlock first he manages to alienate at least twenty other real, genuine human beings?

"We are, just - um," he nods over at Sherlock, who's poking around the scene with just a pair of gloves on again, no blue suit and annoying the officers trying to finish collating their data. "Fresh pair of eyes," Lestrade finishes, wondering whether saying that enough will make people start believing it.

On the way back to Scotland Yard, he realises he's left the forensics report on the coffee table at home. If he can get rid of Sherlock for long enough this afternoon then he can write this damn thing up and hopefully sign off on it tomorrow, so he decides to stop.

"We need to make a detour here," he says, pulling onto his street, and when he stops the car he realises Sherlock is frowning at him.

"Your flat?"

"How did you know this was my flat?" 

Sherlock rolls his eyes as though a toddler could have deduced such a thing. "No marked buildings so no official reasons to stop, and you've been fingering the Yale key on your keyring since we drove into Edgemont Road."

Lestrade feels himself flush. "Right, okay, so I just need to - "

"You're not going to invite me in? How rude, Lestrade; I thought I was supposed to be the one with poorly honed people skills."

And after that there's little else he can do than let Sherlock follow him in, hold open the door to his ground floor flat and let himself be inspected and thoroughly scrutinised via his personal belongings.

The flat is sparse, practically unchanged since he first moved in after things fell apart with Linda three years ago. Lestrade grabs the file he came for from the coffee table and then turns to Sherlock, who appears to have finished his appraisal of the place in record time and is now considering him in silence. He sighs. "Go on then, say what you've got to say."

"You live alone," Sherlock points out, "And prefer the left hand side of the sofa, evident from the worn arm rest near the window; you despise modern fiction as much as you despise modern art and apart from a brief jog in the park on a Sunday morning just to clear your conscience, you do very little exercise. You're practical yet lazy, and though you're married to your job that's not the sole reason you're single; that can be blamed more on your irrational dislike of forming relationships that dominate your free time - you require a hefty amount of personal space and yet still idealise the concept of a perfect marriage."

Lestrade wonders why with Sherlock it always feels like he's walking around with his heart on his sleeve. "And you got all that rubbish from...?"

"Trainers by the door that have hardly been worn yet are ridiculously expensive to over compensate for your lack of motivation, shelves in the corner slightly lop-sided so you clearly fitted them yourself but bulb blown in the lamp next to the television that you haven't replaced. Lack of individualisation of fixtures and fittings showing that you spend very little time at home, more at work and yet two photographs on the mantelpiece showing you with a woman though no number for her on the speed dial so you're clearly single."

Lestrade sighs; he feels exhausted even though all he's done is stand there.

"Oh, and the fact that you and I have casual sex as well, of course."

Sherlock is smirking again, and Lestrade feels a distinct desire to wipe it off his face. "Do we?" He asks, which has the desired effect.

"Do we what?"

"Have casual sex."

Sherlock removes his leather gloves and Lestrade's stomach flips, wondering if he's going to give him a practical demonstration in answer to that question.

"Sorry to disappoint you but I haven't removed my gloves to sweep you onto the sofa and answer that question physically," Sherlock says, stepping forward and removing the file from Lestrade's slightly shaking hands. Stands just a little too close for just a little too long and then backs off, flicking through the sheets. "Now would you like to explain to me what this game is all about?"

Lestrade feels - not for the first time - out of his depth. "What game?"

"This charade with the murdered Russians; your usually ineffectual team clearly have the entire thing tied up, even Molly seemed to know that it was a rogue KGB agent out for payback."

Lestrade splutters. "So - you knew? Before I took you to the scene of crime?"

Sherlock smiles. "They missed a footprint there, by the way, size 10 shoe, international markings, thick rubber souls the like of which are usually produced to withstand a hardy Russian winter."

"So why didn't you bloody say something?" Lestrade asks, whipping the file from Sherlock's hand and throwing it down on top of the television, feeling like a complete fool. He sits on the arm of the chair, rubbing his temples. "You've just been wasting my bloody time."

"I think you'll find," Sherlock says, going over to the window and surveying the street, "That actually _you've_ been wasting my time. You've been attempting to babysit me because John was worried about my mental state, thus you've been fabricating the need for my help to keep me busy whilst I could have been at home, lying on my bed."

"Well why don't you just piss off back home, then?" Lestrade hears himself shout. "Go on, bugger off."

He attempts to count to ten, eyes closed to calm himself down. After a few moments without hearing Sherlock speak or the door closing behind him, however, Lestrade looks up.

He's thrown off-guard by how close Sherlock suddenly is, obviously having crept cat-like from his place by the window. 

And then he's thrown even more off-guard by slim fingers touching the edge of his jaw, delicately yet purposefully tilting up his chin, then thin lips on his own.

Sherlock kisses far slower than he works, but with just as much precision. He can take an age to work his way along Lestrade's bottom lip, tongue sweeping out to wet the tiny chapped area that always gets worn when he's getting a pasting from the journalists at a press conference or stewing over that one final piece that won't fall together so that he can wrap up a case. And then he can mouth carefully along Lestrade's upper lip until the combination of warm breath and fingers working diligently on the soft skin underneath his ear cause Lestrade to part his legs and pull Sherlock forward roughly between his knees, fitting their bodies together until his breathing is uneven.

"You like that," Sherlock observes conversationally as he continues to trace patterns and circles, some ancient Chinese symbols, against the skin of Lestrade's neck. He seems surprised.

"Oh really?" Lestrade pants, unable to stop his hands roaming under the over-dramatic greatcoat Sherlock wears, like a designer Severus Snape. "How did you deduce that one?"

"The manhandling rather gave it away."

Lestrade tugs him forward for another kiss, Sherlock comes readily, lips already parted when they meet, the sound of damp mouths meeting again and again seeming loud in the stillness of the flat. Sherlock tastes like mint and vaguely of spices, an exact flavour that Lestrade can't quite put his finger on. He lifts his mouth for more, agrees much more forcefully with the situation when Sherlock presses harder against him, rubbing against his body like an impatient cat.

"Do you want..." The words seem to die in his throat as Lestrade remembers the last time, the embarrassment of giving up when the other person doesn't, the vulnerability of it. But Sherlock pulls away from his mouth, eyes still perfectly clear but his hair falling in an unusually carefree jumble around his forehead.

"What?"

"I thought... bed, if you want to." He feels his face flush further, wonders what he must possibly look like, constantly offering himself up.

"Of course," Sherlock replies and touches his jawline again, lips ghosting his mouth as he tries to roll them together again, seeking out the heat.

Lestrade feels himself wanting to let go into it, but this really has to be said. He can't help it. "But last time - "

"Last time my mind was elsewhere," Sherlock says, breath warm against his lips. Lestrade can _feel_ him speaking as well as hear it.

"And now...?"

"And now my mind is here," he answers plainly. 

It's not much but at least it's the truth. Lestrade thinks that might be all he's ever going to get. "Right," he says, "Bed."

As he shrugs off his jacket moments later, his phone bleeps, demanding his attention. He glances across at Sherlock, lying back on the bed, propped up on his elbows still fully clothed, waiting for someone to come and undress him, then he looks down quickly at his phone. 

_Thanks for keeping an eye on him.  
JW. _

Lestrade discards it on the table, goes over to the bed. There's a body there undistracted this time, waiting for him.


End file.
